


a dream is a wish

by snowmints



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Eventual recovery, Gen, Ghost is cuddly in this. haven't gotten to the cuddle parts but i swear i will first chance i get, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, In which all three of the siblings are traumatised in their own right, Intrusive Thoughts, Radiance-induced role reversal, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, traumatic pasts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23544019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowmints/pseuds/snowmints
Summary: "Here there is no sea of cadavers mourning. In this story, the prince sees only the darkness from whence they’ve ascended, and the light to which they belong. There is no suffering. There is only them, and a crown as pale as the Light that wears it.(But it isn't true. This is all wrong.)"
Relationships: Hornet & Quirrel (Hollow Knight), The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel & Hornet & The Knight, The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel & Quirrel, The Knight & Quirrel (Hollow Knight), The Pale King/White Lady (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	a dream is a wish

The barrier between dreams and tangibility is thin in some areas, frayed by the strength of hope, or delusion, or infection. Ghost feels the line’s blur selectively. They feel it ease into reality and carve itself a refuge in the minds of bugs, and just the same they feel it sway, turbulent like storm waves, in Hornet’s yearning for Herrah. Sometimes it is sudden, like the sting of acid. Sometimes it is more patient, crackling like sparks of flame rising from a blazing bonfire. Desperate. Strong. Lonely.

Learning comes at a cost. Dreams are not easy things to control, nor are they easy to withstand. They dare and taunt and tempt, and yet, and  _ yet-  _ they soothe and promise. Ghost does not think they understand the nature of them, complicated as they are. Dreams are the sowed horror of Infection in Hallownest; in Myla; in their sibling. But dreams are also the harvest of the Seer’s devotion, patient and kind, a saviour to a vessel castaway by seals into nothingness. There is something scary in the rifts that Ghost can see sometimes, trembling with a power unexploited yet, breathing potential they cannot decipher.

But they are the wielder. The Seer has called them that, and they have never been anything but eager to help, and grateful for her guidance. They think she would have been proud, maybe- they hope so. More than that, now, they hope she would have warned them if she just knew what would become of them.

Essence sings, spilling like eternal rainfall, calling them. Hornet’s arms tremble with the effort of holding The Hollow Knight down with her silk, but she is steadfast, unrelenting. Ghost does not waver either.

For a moment three siblings await, breathless, as the dreamnail slashes through a wavering divide.

_ - _

Once there was a prince that rose from the darkness.

Here there is no sea of cadavers mourning. In this story, the prince sees only the darkness from whence they’ve ascended, and the light to which they belong. There is no suffering. There is only them, and a crown as pale as the Light that wears it.

His hands are unblemished. _ (But they aren’t, they aren’t they aren’t they aren’t theyaren’ttheyaren’tGhostremembersGhostremembers- where is the void? Where is the void that holds onto the tips of his digits, that accusatory black he twisted along with the necks of their countless sibl) _

Here the Prince is needed. 

They look behind at the ledge one last time, and they see nothing but the darkness.   
  


_ (Longinglonginglonging. Herehereherehere, reaching, holding. Where are they? Why won’t they look back…? Where is it? Who is it? What is lost? Who is lost?) _

There is nothing to be afraid of. The Pale Being holds out an unblemished hand and takes with him the lone sibling (sibling? Of whom? For whom?).

* * *

Once there was a bug who was not a Princess.

Here there is no animated corpse of a kingdom to stand guard for. In this story, she sees the world. There is dreadful little to see about all of One place when the enormity of everywhere else beckons. She is skilled, see; she is a warrior, and she is sharp edges and sharper mouth, striking wit that wields silk. She belongs where she chooses.

The bug chases the trail of her lost memories as a true Beast might. There is intrigue there, interwoven with the still body of an old kingdom, and so she embarks on a journey hers to take.

_ (She itches. A burning resentment claws its way up her shell. The kingdom is sacred, neither for the desecraters nor the arrogant. The dead and dying must not be disrespected. She cannot leave it. She  _ cannot  _ leave it. How dare she enter with such intentions? How dare she. Someone should stop this foolish bug -someone… she…. she...Who? Who?) _

Past the peak of the great cliffs that are swallowed amidst an endless roar of the gale, the wandering bug sees the silhouette of a town far away. She makes a bold jump past the jagged stones and rocky platforms that mark the howling grave behind the town. She is close.

_ (She is- she...This rubble, this- her birthright; her responsibility; her Mother’s sacrifice; her burde) _

The trek is hardly one at all. She adventures past the plaques and spikes just short of her destination. 

She is here now, staring from above. Here she breathes in the emptiness, drinks in with her preening eyes the quiet, the settled dust. When she expertly loops her silk around her wrist and makes her second bold leap, the heart of Dirtmouth stands ahead of her. 

The wanderer weaves her way past a large red tent ( _....? They do not belong.),  _ around closed, dust cloaked buildings that tease at having homed people, once. This kingdom, Hornet knows from the song reverberating through her shell, hides secrets beneath a well in this fading town. She feels a purpose in her blood, a calling, but gentle. It does not expect anything of her, this forgotten place. It is nothing more than an intrigue in a world much too large to miss such a place, should it be well and truly dead. She does not owe it. It does not own her. It will never get to keep her.

**Is that not relieving?**

A senior bug turns their attention to her as she approaches the humming that draws her towards the well. 

“Greetings, traveller,” he tells her, a warm lilt to his voice. Hornet stops, drawing her eyes from the well for the moment it takes to give him an acknowledging nod.

Before she can abruptly move past him and quiet the urge that draws her to the waiting depths, he says, “I'm afraid there's only me left to offer welcome. Our town's fallen quiet, you see. The other residents-- they've all disappeared.” 

This makes her pause. Hornet inclines her head, perhaps as a preamble to whatever appropriate response she would have given him. Instead, the words evaporate in her mouth as a frown slips into place.

_ The only one…?  _

Hornet looks back behind her. This is not true. Certainly  _ not. _ The senior bug is not the only one here. This is because there is… 

There is… Well, there has to be something else.  _ Someone  _ else. She feels her instincts wearing at her as if luring her towards an answer she can’t grasp.

What is she looking for? What is the glaring contradiction?

The senior bug shoots her a concerned look. She knows this, even if she is not looking. She is sure. ( _ How so sure? _ )

“Is anything the matter, friend?”

Hornet looks back, raising her chin. She hesitates. “It is nothing. Though if you’ve anything to tell me about the kingdom beneath the well, I’d beseech you to inform me, citizen.” She gives a curt bow. But even while going through the motions of politeness, her irritation is difficult to mask.

Perhaps if that blasted circus music wasn’t so loud, she’d be able to wrench the answer she’s looking for from the tip of her tongue.

* * *

  
  


Once there was a child who was never void. A prince as well, but never that first- always secondary, that title, to being someone else’s. 

Here there is no tension paralysing limbs into a Flawless form, no holy emptiness carved out by sinning hands. Here there is no pretence, there is no desperate compliance. Here there is no burning, aching desire scorching down the sanctity of Nothingness in its filth, no yearning that desecrates His Will, no flawed infallibility that breaks at the threat of affection. Here no terror fights to kill love, and want, and feeling, and pain, and  _ being _ . Here there is no betrayal, no sibling killed by selfish want that the Empty Prison did not have, does not have, cannot have, must not have.

This child grows in the palace, slow and steady. They stumble as often as they do not when learning their first steps, and they are caught in loving arms more than half that amount. The White Lady’s roots become their cradle and her song their lullaby. Why wouldn’t they have her; her time, her Love, her Approving smile, when they are her child? 

They are curled in her lap one such day, white light pouring through the stilted window to her chambers. Pale root strokes the top of their head with aching gentleness, each stroke somehow dripping with fondness more so than the last. She does not stop.

When the child timidly nuzzles back against her affections in eager (if reluctant) reciprocation, her voice trills with laughter that blankets them in transcendent warmth.

“Bolder my child becomes with each passing moon. Lively, it is. What quaint a creature, my spawn..” Her root withdraws languidly, sweeping a soft arc through the air.

Its absence, like fossilised flint striking its match, ignites fear.

The Hollow Knight hesitates.

  
  


( _ They are _

_ In trouble _

_ She  _

_ Has _

_ Seen. She cannot k _

_ now. _

_. _

_. _

_. _

_. _

_. _

_. _

_. _

_ And the Pale King said: Let you be the bars that jail the Light which plagues their minds for as long as time comes to pass. And the Dreamers said: Let you be the coffin that we entomb our promise in, the hope that is our killer, our burier. And Hallownest said: Let you be the sacrifice that keeps me living, keeps me everlasting, keeps me whole.  _ )

But the story says, insistent and sharp: You grow in the palace, slow and steady. You stumble as often as you don’t, and are caught in loving arms more than half the amount. The White Lady loves you through your growth and past it.

**Are you not glad, little Prince, to be so loved?**

_ (And the Deceiving Vessel said: I will doom you to a rot eternal, and in my failure die your dreams; your hopes; your prayers.) _

Their story said: You grow in the palace, slow and steady. You stumble as often as you don’t, and are caught in loving arms more than half the time. The White Lady loves you. The White Palace loves you. Hallownest sees in you only a child that exists so.  **Do you not understand?**

( _ Vo i _

_ d?) _

The story quakes in its r **e** assuring **n** arrative: is this not en **ough** , **Prince**? You are not voi **d**. Y **o** u can **not be empty**. Your destiny forbids you.

.

.

.

Ah, what’s this? She’s back to patting them again. They hope The Five Knights do not arrive soon to play with them, even if they've been hoping that they'd teach them how to swing their nail. They’re growing rather tired.

The child closes their eyes as their mother swaddles them, peace sinking into the heart they have been permitted.

**Author's Note:**

> Got the role reversal prompt from a lovely person at my HK server! I hope you enjoyed reading this...! Please do take the time to write a comment, if so!


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